An Ode to Freedom Month (For the Black Woman Who Still Rises)
“An Ode to Freedom Month (For the Black Woman Who Still Rises)”
They call it Freedom Month
But I been breathing resistance since birth,
Born with chains echoing in my bones,
Still taught my skin is a battlefield.
Freedom,
ain’t just fireworks in the sky,
It’s the quiet rebellion of my grandmother’s eyes
Watching a world try to shrink her soul
While she still baked joy into cornbread and survival into lullabies.
I walk in her steps,
a Black woman in a white world
Where I’m called too much and not enough
In the same damn breath.
But I know now:
I am carved from cosmos,
my hair holds constellations,
my voice—ancestral thunder.
Being free isn’t just a legal line,
it’s the right to be without apology.
To laugh loud in boardrooms.
To take up space without shrinking.
To wear my coils like crowns
and speak truth even when it trembles.
But freedom isn’t solitary
It’s communal.
It’s us—linking arms like bridges.
It’s collaboration over competition.
It’s the drumbeat of unity louder than silence.
So I’m calling on my sisters,
my brothers, my people
Let’s build tables instead of waiting for a seat.
Let’s bring in the village,
not to ask for permission,
but to offer invitation.
To allies:
Don’t center yourselves,
center the work.
Hold space, pass the mic,
then listen.
This month isn’t just a celebration
It’s a declaration:
That Black freedom ain’t a gift, it’s a right.
That collaboration is our revolution.
That the Black woman
Is not just surviving,
She’s orchestrating the future.
So here’s to Freedom Month
Not the kind they wrote in textbooks,
but the kind we etch in legacy,
In the rhythm of our strides,
In the way we lift each other high,
And in the sacred truth:
That none of us are free
Until all of us are.
~tha Floetress
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